A midnight black with clouds is in the sky;I seem to feel, upon my limbs, the weightOf its vast brooding shadow. All in vainTurns the tired eye in search of form; no starPierces the pitchy veil; no ruddy blaze,From dwellings lighted by the cheerful hearth,Tinges the flowering summits of the grass.No sound of life is heard, no village hum,Nor measured tramp of footstep in the path,Nor rush of wing, while, on the breast of Earth,I lie and listen to her mighty voice:A voice of many tones--sent up from streamsThat wander through the gloom, from woods unseen,Swayed by the sweeping of the tides of air,From rocky chasms where darkness dwells all day,And hollows of the great invisible hills,And sands that edge the ocean, stretching farInto the night--a melancholy sound!

O Earth! dost thou too sorrow for the pastLike man thy offspring? Do I hear thee mournThy childhood's unreturning hours, thy springsGone with their genial airs and melodies,The gentle generations of thy flowers,And thy majestic groves of olden time,Perished with all their dwellers? Dost thou wailFor that fair age of which the poets tell,Ere the rude winds grew keen with frost, or fireFell with the rains, or spouted from the hills,To blast thy greenness, while the virgin nightWas guiltless and salubrious as the day?Or haply dost thou grieve for those that die--For living things that trod thy paths awhile,The love of thee and heaven--and now they sleepMixed with the shapeless dust on which thy herdsTrample and graze? I too must grieve with thee,O'er loved ones lost. Their graves are far awayUpon thy mountains; yet, while I reclineAlone, in darkness, on thy naked soil,The mighty nourisher and burial-placeOf man, I feel that I embrace their dust.

Ha! how the murmur deepens! I perceiveAnd tremble at its dreadful import. EarthUplifts a general cry for guilt and wrong,And heaven is listening. The forgotten gravesOf the heart-broken utter forth their plaint.The dust of her who loved and was betrayed,And him who died neglected in his age;The sepulchres of those who for mankindLaboured, and earned the recompense of scorn;Ashes of martyrs for the truth, and bonesOf those who, in the strife for liberty,Were beaten down, their corses given to dogs,Their names to infamy, all find a voice.The nook in which the captive, overtoiled,Lay down to rest at last, and that which holdsChildhood's sweet blossoms, crushed by cruel hands,Send up a plaintive sound. From battle-fields,Where heroes madly drave and dashed their hostsAgainst each other, rises up a noise,As if the armed multitudes of deadStirred in their heavy slumber. Mournful tonesCome from the green abysses of the sea--story of the crimes the guilty soughtTo hide beneath its waves. The glens, the groves,Paths in the thicket, pools of running brook,And banks and depths of lake, and streets and lanesOf cities, now that living sounds are hushed,Murmur of guilty force and treachery.

Here, where I rest, the vales of ItalyAre round me, populous from early time,And field of the tremendous warfare waged'Twixt good and evil. Who, alas, shall dareInterpret to man's ear the mingled voiceThat comes from her old dungeons yawning nowTo the black air, her amphitheatres,Where the dew gathers on the mouldering stones,And fanes of banished gods, and open tombs,And roofless palaces, and streets and hearthsOf cities dug from their volcanic graves?I hear a sound of many languages,The utterance of nations now no more,Driven out by mightier, as the days of heavenChase one another from the sky. The bloodOf freemen shed by freemen, till strange lordsCame in the hour of weakness, and made fastThe yoke that yet is worn, cries out to Heaven.

What then shall cleanse thy bosom, gentle EarthFrom all its painful memories of guilt?The whelming flood, or the renewing fire,Or the slow change of time? that so, at last,The horrid tale of perjury and strife,Murder and spoil, which men call history,May seem a fable, like the inventions toldBy poets of the gods of Greece. O thou,Who sittest far beyond the Atlantic deep,Among the sources of thy glorious streams,My native Land of Groves! a newer pageIn the great record of the world is thine;Shall it be fairer? Fear, and friendly hope,And envy, watch the issue, while the lines,By which thou shalt be judged, are written down.

This is the church which Pisa, great and free,Reared to St. Catharine. How the time-stained walls,That earthquakes shook not from their poise, appearTo shiver in the deep and voluble tonesRolled from the organ! Underneath my feetThere lies the lid of a sepulchral vault.The image of an armed knight is gravenUpon it, clad in perfect panoply--Cuishes, and greaves, and cuirass, with barred helm,Gauntleted hand, and sword, and blazoned shield.Around, in Gothic characters, worn dimBy feet of worshippers, are traced his name,And birth, and death, and words of eulogy.Why should I pore upon them? This old tomb,This effigy, the strange disused formOf this

Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines! In the soft light of these serenest skies;From the broad highland region, black with pines, Fair as the hills of Paradise they rise,Bathed in the tint Peruvian slaves beholdIn rosy flushes on the virgin gold.There, rooted to the aerial shelves that wear The glory of a brighter world, might springSweet flowers of heaven to scent the unbreathed air, And heaven's fleet messengers might rest the wing,To view the fair earth in its summer sleep,Silent, and cradled by the glimmering deep.Below you lie men's sepulchres, the old Etrurian tombs, the graves of yesterday;The herd's white bones